Open letter from The Bunny

I know you better than you might think. I see you walk past me on the way to the library, wearing your Wash. U. sweatpants. I’ve stared at you lounging on the green grass. And I sat helplessly on my haunches last Friday night as you desecrated and defiled me.

I’ve never done anything bad to you, mostly because I don’t do anything, period. I pretend to be thinking, which is pretty difficult when one has no brain. My throne is a rock, knobbly and hard. My purpose in life seems to be giving those pesky tour guides something to point out between Olin Library and Graham Chapel.

Yet I have enough self-respect to think I am an integral part of this campus. I am a beacon for the lost. I am a touch of flavor this campus needs. I am The Bunny, dammit, the symbol of introspection and intellectual wisdom at this university. I’ve had my picture taken with more people than George Clooney. I deserve respect, honor and perhaps the occasional pat on the back. I am postmodern, whatever that means, and maybe you could try to interrogate me as art instead of mocking me.

But instead, what did you offer me? A paint job only an art conservator could fix. Now I sit alone and emaciated in my blue tarpaulin kilt. I am no longer a landmark, but a laughingstock. I’ve seen you walk past me as if nothing happened, and boy, do I wish I could spit at you. I am hurt, I am spiteful, and I can’t wait for you to get caught.

If you were going to alter my appearance, you could have at least had the courtesy to be more creative. I would have appreciated a few carrots (or, hell, a Bear Necessities cake) to feed my malnourished frame. I would have chuckled (silently­—for I am, after all, a statue) if you had chosen to dress me up in a rare burst of school spirit or in honor of an upcoming event. Those res-college scarves I’ve seen look pretty snazzy.

But alas, it was not so. Rather than enhance my important symbolic role on this campus, you resorted to cheap vandalism. Instead of amusement, you chose cruelty.

But no worries, I’ll be better soon. Paint can be erased; my memory cannot. And rest assured, I’ll be watching for you.